SPRING IN ITALY - LUBRIANO FLOWER FESTIVAL
LUBRIANO INFIORATA - May 23rd, 2004
by Diana Armstrong
In an obscure part of Umbria, the Calanchi Valley lies open before me. At first glance in the steel light of the still too early May morning, the bare honey cliffs look a little forbidding. But as the first rays break through, like the lights coming on in a symphony hall, the green valley in the foreground comes into view. A chorus of song birds being directed by a cuckoo is my happy wake up call. Spring is everywhere showing its colors and the hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio is rising from the valley almost in front of my face. The Church bell chimes the hour over there in Civita, always 30 seconds ahead of our Lubriano Church.
Tomorrow is Sunday and the Feast of Our Lady of Lubriano. In our village of Lubriano, it is the biggest celebration in the busy Roman Catholic calendar. The Festa della Madonna del Poggio. All 980 residents will cover the one and only street with flower petals. For one quarter of a medieval mile between the two village churches of San Giovanni Battista (XI C.) and Santa Maria del Poggio (XVII C.) the charcoal granite street paving will be transformed into one long dizzy artist's palette.
David and I share an old Jesuit monastery built in the 16th century. We have it "in condominio" with a retired Italian couple the Medoris. The fast talking, highly-energetic wife, tells me, I think I discern, that our two families are responsible for entirely filling the street with petals and blossoms. We have 60 feet of our combined road frontage. The Medoris are one of the four big families in town. THEY can call in brothers, sisters, children, nieces, cousins living in the general area as re-inforcement to scour all the surrounding hills for buds and blossoms. We, on the otherhand, would have to call five different cities in the U.S.A. for a troop deployment of la famiglia.
This flower duty was not listed in the sale agreement when we bought our part of this little "palazzini" two years ago.
Our daughter is visiting with her small children. She, not knowing of the May flower-fling tomorrow, had booked to go to Florence for the day. David, my husband is not about to gaily skip over the fields, with basket swinging, plucking blossoms. He is only happy to sing "With a Hay and a Ho and a Hay Nonny No, Sweet Lovers love the Spring" in medieval accompaniment to our flower picking! He will NOT pick flowers. He is just not that kind of person. So my army of flower pickers consist of: me, my ten and eight year old grandsons and my five year old grandaughter. The boys are most enthusiastic and help all day but little Anna is more interested in climbing the trees rather than picking the blossoms. By lunch time I realise I need re-inforcement and it is time to cheat. I walk on down to the little garden shop which closes in one hour for the weekend. I negotiate with them to buy all their flowers. (This is apparently a big "no-no" as no-one else seems to be in the garden shop.) The Signora agrees and for $20 sells me armfuls of flowers that on Monday wil be past their sell-by date. Included in this armful are about 150 stunning Gerber daisies. With my stress level down, we return to our blossom-filled back garden and fragrantly pluck away at apple blossoms, cherry blossoms, and rose bushes. At dusk we are done, physically that is. The petal scents turn the house into a perfume factory.
Mrs. Medori has informed me we will meet in the street, with baskets of flowers, at 9.30 a.m. sharp. We will then chalk out our design onto the streets pavers "piu veloce." At 10 a.m. the street will be closed to traffic. All flower laying begins. At 10.45 it is "molto importante" that all is done. And at 11 a.m. sharp the long religious procession will walk bare foot over our art-work.
Angst accompanies me all night. It all seems an impossibility to strew that amount of flowers in that amount of space, in complicated design, in that amount of time. At 9.30 a.m. a cannon sounds in the valley obviously telling the community that the "Festa" is ON - the clouds are ominous, but there is no "rain delay".
I start by chalking my part of the street. Being no artist I again cheat I draw circles with the aid of a broom stick in hand at the center and the children's jump rope. I mark out giant circles. A neighbor tells me no-one has thought of that before. My angst disappears when a whole contingent of about seven Medoris appear with huge laundry baskets full of petals of brilliant pinks, yellows and reds. Mrs Medori is "la Maestra" and conducts the concerto of flower flingers. Mrs. Medori had chalked in the word "LOVE" which I though cute and kind seeing she speaks no English at all. We all work like crazy for 45 minutes in floral harmony, topping off the designs with my Gerber daisies, which despite the origins, are gratefuly received.
We all quickly walked down the street to see how others had fared. Mrs. Medori whispers to me: "piu bella" (meaning ours are the best). We all nod furiously. The town is transformed really into LOVE. Its monochromatic medieval streets are bursting with color, delicious scents and everyone has a spring in their step.
At 11 a.m. I shout fly up to my bedroom and noisily call to my daughter in the next room: "Where is the iron?" We have been invited to a First Communion celebration immediately after the procession ends. I look out of my window, still amazed by the speed of it all as though to check that I was not dreaming and I am startled to see, silently, the priest below me with all procession formed behind him. They are waiting right outside our window for the band to signal the start of the parade. I feel like a noisy buffoon acting up in the middle of a minute of silence.
Solemnly, barefoot, behind Don Luigi the Church icon is held up high by three young ladies and then an armada of celebrants. The first few devotees are young girls completely covered from head to toe in black garments. Their faces are completely hidden as if in mourning and their black-stockinged feet accentuate the brilliance of the petals underfoot. They are carrying gigantic white altar candles about as tall as they are. The significance of this escapes me, but Vivian our part time housekeeper assures me that these young ladies owe a great debt to the Madonna and are humbling themselves in great thanks for prayers answered. A couple of bands follow the procession, one very smart contingent with massive irridescent black feathers fluttering atop their helmets, bobbing to the beat of their step. The procession passes on our petals. The crushed, scattered petals waft more perfume into the air. Our Monet canvas is turning to Picasso as it is all being de-constructed before our eyes. Five minutes later our design is gone. However, on looking at the flowers all mixed up I wonder which is better, before or after. The new pot-pourri at my feet is a pure testiment to nature's glory. The new palette mocks me, to think I could make a better design than spring itself.
Fifteen minutes after the procession has disappeared, husbands (including mine) bring out the emptied laundry baskets and with great gusto the street is swept clean of any petal. The sweet sweet blossoms hour passed.
Infiorata Details:
This flower festival in Lubriano is called Fiera della Madonna del Poggio. It is always held on the sixth Sunday after Easter. The Festival begins at 11 a.m. sharp outside the main Church of San Giovanni Battista and proceeds to the second village church, the Santuario della Madonna del Poggio. The procession takes about 30 minutes.
General Information:
Getting there: By train - 55 minutes from Rome to Orvieto and then 20 minutes by bus or taxi from Orvieto train station to Lubriano
Village Accommodation and Dining:
La Casette Self Catering Studios: Euro 90 a night for two people - Studios with magnificent views of Civita di Bagnoregio - phone 011-39-0761-780-433
Palazzo Monaldeschi Self Catering Studios: Euro 90 a night for two people - Studios on the main square in Lubriano (with swimming pool) - phone - 011-39-0761-780-641
Ristorante Vecchio Mulino: Inexpensive - the best view is from the kitchen - try for a table one of two tables with a magnificent view over Civita di Bagnoregio
(closed Mondays)
Pizzeria il Frontoio: Inexpensive: newly opened snazzy pizzeria where the pasta and meat dishes are excellent, and the pizza disappointing.
Nearby Accommodation:
Expensive:
La Badia Hotel, 20 minutes away from Lubriano in the environs of Orvieto: Euro 250 a night for a double room with breakfast and dinner included. This XII C. abbey is tastefully restored to a high level of excellence. The staff are all most gentle and caring. Try the "Mixed Grill" cooked over in a giant medieval fireplace. (www.BadiaHotel.it Phone 39-0763-301-959)
Moderate:
Palazzo Piccolomini. 30 minutes away in the ancient hill-top of Orvieto: Euro 150 a night for a double room with breakfast. A restored medieval palace,excellent value. (www.hotelpiccolomini.it Phone 39-0763-391-046)
The Author:
Diana G. Armstrong is a cookbook author who lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband David. They spend spring and fall in their Italy home: Lubriano which is on the border of Umbria and the Lazio. The Umbrian hill top town of Orvieto is 20 minutes away. Her cookbook "Cooking for My Friends" is available through Amazon.com
by Diana Armstrong
In an obscure part of Umbria, the Calanchi Valley lies open before me. At first glance in the steel light of the still too early May morning, the bare honey cliffs look a little forbidding. But as the first rays break through, like the lights coming on in a symphony hall, the green valley in the foreground comes into view. A chorus of song birds being directed by a cuckoo is my happy wake up call. Spring is everywhere showing its colors and the hill-top town of Civita di Bagnoregio is rising from the valley almost in front of my face. The Church bell chimes the hour over there in Civita, always 30 seconds ahead of our Lubriano Church.
Tomorrow is Sunday and the Feast of Our Lady of Lubriano. In our village of Lubriano, it is the biggest celebration in the busy Roman Catholic calendar. The Festa della Madonna del Poggio. All 980 residents will cover the one and only street with flower petals. For one quarter of a medieval mile between the two village churches of San Giovanni Battista (XI C.) and Santa Maria del Poggio (XVII C.) the charcoal granite street paving will be transformed into one long dizzy artist's palette.
David and I share an old Jesuit monastery built in the 16th century. We have it "in condominio" with a retired Italian couple the Medoris. The fast talking, highly-energetic wife, tells me, I think I discern, that our two families are responsible for entirely filling the street with petals and blossoms. We have 60 feet of our combined road frontage. The Medoris are one of the four big families in town. THEY can call in brothers, sisters, children, nieces, cousins living in the general area as re-inforcement to scour all the surrounding hills for buds and blossoms. We, on the otherhand, would have to call five different cities in the U.S.A. for a troop deployment of la famiglia.
This flower duty was not listed in the sale agreement when we bought our part of this little "palazzini" two years ago.
Our daughter is visiting with her small children. She, not knowing of the May flower-fling tomorrow, had booked to go to Florence for the day. David, my husband is not about to gaily skip over the fields, with basket swinging, plucking blossoms. He is only happy to sing "With a Hay and a Ho and a Hay Nonny No, Sweet Lovers love the Spring" in medieval accompaniment to our flower picking! He will NOT pick flowers. He is just not that kind of person. So my army of flower pickers consist of: me, my ten and eight year old grandsons and my five year old grandaughter. The boys are most enthusiastic and help all day but little Anna is more interested in climbing the trees rather than picking the blossoms. By lunch time I realise I need re-inforcement and it is time to cheat. I walk on down to the little garden shop which closes in one hour for the weekend. I negotiate with them to buy all their flowers. (This is apparently a big "no-no" as no-one else seems to be in the garden shop.) The Signora agrees and for $20 sells me armfuls of flowers that on Monday wil be past their sell-by date. Included in this armful are about 150 stunning Gerber daisies. With my stress level down, we return to our blossom-filled back garden and fragrantly pluck away at apple blossoms, cherry blossoms, and rose bushes. At dusk we are done, physically that is. The petal scents turn the house into a perfume factory.
Mrs. Medori has informed me we will meet in the street, with baskets of flowers, at 9.30 a.m. sharp. We will then chalk out our design onto the streets pavers "piu veloce." At 10 a.m. the street will be closed to traffic. All flower laying begins. At 10.45 it is "molto importante" that all is done. And at 11 a.m. sharp the long religious procession will walk bare foot over our art-work.
Angst accompanies me all night. It all seems an impossibility to strew that amount of flowers in that amount of space, in complicated design, in that amount of time. At 9.30 a.m. a cannon sounds in the valley obviously telling the community that the "Festa" is ON - the clouds are ominous, but there is no "rain delay".
I start by chalking my part of the street. Being no artist I again cheat I draw circles with the aid of a broom stick in hand at the center and the children's jump rope. I mark out giant circles. A neighbor tells me no-one has thought of that before. My angst disappears when a whole contingent of about seven Medoris appear with huge laundry baskets full of petals of brilliant pinks, yellows and reds. Mrs Medori is "la Maestra" and conducts the concerto of flower flingers. Mrs. Medori had chalked in the word "LOVE" which I though cute and kind seeing she speaks no English at all. We all work like crazy for 45 minutes in floral harmony, topping off the designs with my Gerber daisies, which despite the origins, are gratefuly received.
We all quickly walked down the street to see how others had fared. Mrs. Medori whispers to me: "piu bella" (meaning ours are the best). We all nod furiously. The town is transformed really into LOVE. Its monochromatic medieval streets are bursting with color, delicious scents and everyone has a spring in their step.
At 11 a.m. I shout fly up to my bedroom and noisily call to my daughter in the next room: "Where is the iron?" We have been invited to a First Communion celebration immediately after the procession ends. I look out of my window, still amazed by the speed of it all as though to check that I was not dreaming and I am startled to see, silently, the priest below me with all procession formed behind him. They are waiting right outside our window for the band to signal the start of the parade. I feel like a noisy buffoon acting up in the middle of a minute of silence.
Solemnly, barefoot, behind Don Luigi the Church icon is held up high by three young ladies and then an armada of celebrants. The first few devotees are young girls completely covered from head to toe in black garments. Their faces are completely hidden as if in mourning and their black-stockinged feet accentuate the brilliance of the petals underfoot. They are carrying gigantic white altar candles about as tall as they are. The significance of this escapes me, but Vivian our part time housekeeper assures me that these young ladies owe a great debt to the Madonna and are humbling themselves in great thanks for prayers answered. A couple of bands follow the procession, one very smart contingent with massive irridescent black feathers fluttering atop their helmets, bobbing to the beat of their step. The procession passes on our petals. The crushed, scattered petals waft more perfume into the air. Our Monet canvas is turning to Picasso as it is all being de-constructed before our eyes. Five minutes later our design is gone. However, on looking at the flowers all mixed up I wonder which is better, before or after. The new pot-pourri at my feet is a pure testiment to nature's glory. The new palette mocks me, to think I could make a better design than spring itself.
Fifteen minutes after the procession has disappeared, husbands (including mine) bring out the emptied laundry baskets and with great gusto the street is swept clean of any petal. The sweet sweet blossoms hour passed.
Infiorata Details:
This flower festival in Lubriano is called Fiera della Madonna del Poggio. It is always held on the sixth Sunday after Easter. The Festival begins at 11 a.m. sharp outside the main Church of San Giovanni Battista and proceeds to the second village church, the Santuario della Madonna del Poggio. The procession takes about 30 minutes.
General Information:
Getting there: By train - 55 minutes from Rome to Orvieto and then 20 minutes by bus or taxi from Orvieto train station to Lubriano
Village Accommodation and Dining:
La Casette Self Catering Studios: Euro 90 a night for two people - Studios with magnificent views of Civita di Bagnoregio - phone 011-39-0761-780-433
Palazzo Monaldeschi Self Catering Studios: Euro 90 a night for two people - Studios on the main square in Lubriano (with swimming pool) - phone - 011-39-0761-780-641
Ristorante Vecchio Mulino: Inexpensive - the best view is from the kitchen - try for a table one of two tables with a magnificent view over Civita di Bagnoregio
(closed Mondays)
Pizzeria il Frontoio: Inexpensive: newly opened snazzy pizzeria where the pasta and meat dishes are excellent, and the pizza disappointing.
Nearby Accommodation:
Expensive:
La Badia Hotel, 20 minutes away from Lubriano in the environs of Orvieto: Euro 250 a night for a double room with breakfast and dinner included. This XII C. abbey is tastefully restored to a high level of excellence. The staff are all most gentle and caring. Try the "Mixed Grill" cooked over in a giant medieval fireplace. (www.BadiaHotel.it Phone 39-0763-301-959)
Moderate:
Palazzo Piccolomini. 30 minutes away in the ancient hill-top of Orvieto: Euro 150 a night for a double room with breakfast. A restored medieval palace,excellent value. (www.hotelpiccolomini.it Phone 39-0763-391-046)
The Author:
Diana G. Armstrong is a cookbook author who lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband David. They spend spring and fall in their Italy home: Lubriano which is on the border of Umbria and the Lazio. The Umbrian hill top town of Orvieto is 20 minutes away. Her cookbook "Cooking for My Friends" is available through Amazon.com
posted by Di Armstrong at 12:57 PM
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